Authors: Rhonda Sheree
For a moment Jade thought perhaps she had miscalculated. She’d wondered if Kim was capable of seducing Rodney, but she was right in doubting that scenario. He’d recently called Kim a spoiled brat who was nauseatingly happy because working as a hobby gave her that privilege. Jade could’ve shot back that Kim happened to be a very talented girl with nimble hands and a wicked imagination for theatrical makeup. But she didn’t defend her. By that time, Jade had realized that she was in the market for a different kind of talent.
“I need an assistant who does more than accompany me on my assignments and keep me stocked with cosmetics. I need someone who can handle my personal affairs as well as a few other duties on the side.”
“I’m sure that’s nothing I can’t do.”
You can’t seduce my husband. The fact that he cannot stand the sight of you is proof enough.
“No,” Jade said with finality. She stood and dropped a check on the table. “And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of this but you signed a confidentiality—“
“Are you serious? I’d never—”
“I’m just making sure that you don’t. I’d hate to have to sue you for slander and take all of your daddy’s hard-earned money.”
Kim’s face became hard, as if a mask molded from plaster had been placed on top of her normally effervescent face.
“You don’t have to threaten me.”
“I know.” Jade shrugged. “But it doesn’t hurt.”
***
Chapter 7
Templeton Temps was a staffing agency that specialized in placing clerical professionals in temporary assignments. Syeesha had worked with agencies before, albeit only those that specialized in placing legal professionals in well-paying law firms. As a legal secretary, she possessed very specialized training and would normally overlook a firm that placed low-level administrative professionals into ten-dollar-an-hour jobs. At Clarke, Syeesha earned forty grand. Great if you lived in Tupelo, Mississippi. You could probably feed a family of four and still have about half left over to buy a house. Not so great if you lived in New York, New York. Nearly all of a single bi-weekly paycheck went toward rent and utilities. The other paycheck was dedicated to her education, her credit cards (with just enough of a balance to let her afford a pack of pantyhose), and that pesky little appetite of hers that was never sated.
Located near Union Square, the lobby of the narrow building felt as claustrophobic as an elevator shaft. Beige marble walls, dim lighting, and peeling baseboards were a stark reminder that she wasn’t on Madison Avenue anymore. Syeesha slid her driver’s license to the security guard. He pointed a camera that resembled an electronic eyeball at her before passing her a sticky nametag. Her name was printed next to a faded gray square that contained an outline of a head. She assumed it was hers.
“I’ve never looked better.” She flashed him the name tag and a smile.
He glared at her then pointed to the elevator. “Fifteenth floor.”
Syeesha was still holding her breath when she stepped off the musty elevator. She passed the restrooms and a couple other offices before noticing that the light blue stripe in the center of the navy carpet was leading the way to a wooden door with curvy, embossed lettering:
Templeton Temps
.
“May I help you?” The receptionist hung up the telephone and beamed at Syeesha.
“I have an appointment with Ray Templeton, please. Syeesha Green.”
Pointy clear nails against the keyboard.
“Don’t see an appointment.”
“He spoke with Tanya Griffin and told her I could stop by today at—“
“Who’s Tanya Griffin?”
Syeesha felt a dread wash over her, but she kept her composure.
“Maybe he forgot to put me on the calendar. If you could just tell him I’m here.”
“Oooh. Can’t do that. He’s in a meeting. But I can slide you on here now if you’re available for . . . next Wednesday?”
Syeesha shook her head.
“That’s the earliest.”
A heavy sigh preceded her relenting. “I’ll take it.”
But as Syeesha stepped out of the office, she looked down the hall in each direction. The elevator was in one direction and in the other was a door. It was nondescript and pushed back into a little alcove. Beyond that door was a corner where the hallway turned. Syeesha took a position around the corner. Nothing behind her except a door leading to the stairwell. No other offices. She poked her head around the corner and waited for the door pushed into the alcove to swing open. Sweat slid from her armpits. She removed her coat and slung it over her arm.
While she waited, Syeesha wondered if this was the kind of reconnaissance her father had done in the military. Maybe he had staked out enemy territory in some foreign country, his steady hands clutching a fully loaded M-16, his taut face camouflaged behind green paint, his worn leather boots moving soundlessly through a jungle of tangled vines and hissing snakes.
But of course her thoughts were silly. Barry Green had been little more than a payroll clerk. That had shamed him. That explained the sleepless nights she’d endured calling out answers while he held up self-made flashcards from Syeesha’s homework assignments and drilled her repetitively; or why he once had locked Trina in her room from Friday night until Monday morning—letting her out only for supervised meals and bathroom breaks—after she’d gotten a C on a chemistry exam. He’d never let his girls forget that “good enough” wasn’t good enough in his house.
The unmarked door opened. A man emerged, humming a Bruno Mars tune. He strolled down the hall away from where Syeesha was hiding. Just as he pushed open the men’s restroom door, Syeesha scrambled to catch the unmarked door before it closed. She stuck her foot inside the door and muffled a curse as the door slammed against her toe. She slipped inside and got her bearings.
Straight ahead to the left was a room—or was it an office?—with a phone ringing. She walked casually toward the sound and saw an open office space with cubicles. Beside her was another room with vending machines. No one in there. She refocused on the bullpen. There were no name tags on the light gray cubicle walls.
Bummer!
She eased forward. Some recruiters were on the phone, others focused on their computers. A few candidates sat interviewing beside recruiters’ desks.
How the hell am I gonna figure out who
—
Just then Syeesha heard a guy across the room say, “Don’t
Ray
me. You’re forty days late paying your account. You’re one of my best clients, but I think forty days is pushing it.”
“Can I help you?” A young guy with a yarmulke looked at her. He sat to her left. Ray was on the other side of the cubicles to her right.
“Just heading over to see Ray. Got a bit lost.”
He turned back around and picked up the receiver of his ringing telephone without another word to her.
Syeesha strode over to the other side of the cubicles. The other two cubes were empty so the deduction process was easy. Casually, she eased into the chair beside Ray’s desk. He stopped midsentence, his phone to his ear. Like a typical male, his eyes darted from her face, to her breasts, then back up again.
“Can I help you?”
“Syeesha Green.” She extended her hand. “Tanya Griffin called you about me.”
“Arthur, let me call you back.”
He shook her hand then leaned back in his chair. His eyes dropped to her legs. She crossed them.
“How’d you get back here? Maureen told you to come on back?”
This guy’s forgotten he told Tanya that I could swing by at ten. Oh, well. Playing dumb worked well for Marilyn Monroe.
“Maureen?”
“The receptionist?”
Syeesha widened her eyes and flipped them up toward the broken tile of the drop ceiling. “Receptionist?”
“Dammit! She probably slipped away from her desk again without telling anybody to cover for her. Sorry about that. We try to be a bit more professional here.”
Oh, really?
Syeesha waved off his apology. “No need to even think about it again. It gave me a chance to see your lovely offices.”
“I thought I put you on the calendar for next week.” He looked at his monitor and began twirling and clicking his mouse.
“Pretty sure it was today . . .” She recrossed her legs. He looked down. “Since I’m here can we—“
“Why not? This won’t take long.” He ran a hand over his crew cut. “I got your e-mail last night with your résumé.”
Syeesha noticed that his swivel chair was so low it nearly touched the ground, yet his broad shoulders were still high above her own. She glanced at his monitor as he scrolled down his inbox, and noticed that many appeared opened.
How many were from job seekers
? she wondered.
“I have an extra résumé right here.” She unzipped her portfolio and produced a clean copy of her résumé.
His chair groaned as he leaned back and studied the page.
“Tanya spoke very highly of you,” he said without taking his eyes from the page.
He asked her a few rudimentary questions before slipping the sheet onto his desk.
“I’m not gonna kid you,” he began. Syeesha felt her heart dive into her stomach. “There’re more candidates than jobs right now.”
“I’m willing to work temp jobs for a while.”
His phone rang. He ignored it. Ray clasped his hands and twisted his face while watching his thumbs dance around each other, deep in thought.
“Just so happens that I got a request in this morning. I’m not sure if you’re right for it though.”
“I’d like to hear about.”
“I’ve never worked with this client before, but I understand there are some deep pockets involved.” He plucked a manila folder from the mass of papers on his desk. “Everything’s pretty confidential at the moment.”
“Can you name the company?”
“Nope. It’s a personal-assistant position with a high-profile employer. A woman. Duties are what you might expect: calendaring, booking travel, et cetera.”
“Sounds promising.”
“She’s looking for something very specific, but it’s hard for me to do any initial screenings for her because she wasn’t full of details. Not sure she even knows what she’s looking for.”
I definitely know the feeling.
“She requires a picture with a résumé. Background check. Drug test. Confidentiality agreement if hired.”
Syeesha wasn’t so sure of the legality of asking for a picture. Was the employer looking for someone white, black, fat, skinny, pretty, ugly? Trina would’ve said absolutely not.
“No problem.”
Ray made a few notes on her résumé.
“Pays fifty.” He looked up at her and asked with a straight face, “Is that okay?”
From forty to fifty grand a year? Yeah. I think that’ll be okay.
Sweet images filled her head. She could take a trip to the hair salon for a good pressing and highlights or maybe even a reckless excursion to H&M for some foolishly trendy clothes that would be outdated before she even left the store. Syeesha swallowed hard, but didn’t feel as though she could trust her voice from croaking. She nodded.
“Great. I’ll submit you.”
Ray pushed back his chair and whipped his cell phone from his desk. He pushed a button and enabled the camera function.
“Say cheddar.”
***
Chapter 8
Syeesha’s boots squished through the dirty slush while light snowflakes blanketed the city. She schlepped to the newly built Steinberg Law School, located on what was supposed to be a memorial for the victims of the 9/11 bombings. Infighting and threats of political ruin had led former Mayor Jacob Steinberg to proffer a bold, albeit self-promotional plan. He argued that a school on the grounds could foster a new crop of educated young people who would someday supplement counter-terrorism efforts, not just in America, but in all countries determined to promote peace. The city council had balked at such a plan until the billionaire had informed them the school would be completely dependent on privately donated funds. The mayor had had but three conditions: it would be a law school offering full and part-time curriculums; the expansive library would include a wall (of his choosing) commemorating those who had lost their lives on that fateful day; and the school would be named after him. When pressed by reporters as to why he wanted a law school as opposed to a business or liberal arts college, the mayor had simply shrugged off the question with curt answers such as, “Lawyers help shape policy in America” and “We need more good lawyers.” Critics had argued loudly that the tuition for the law school would add twice as much money to the former mayor’s pockets as a traditional school. Yet Steinberg had offered a generous selection of scholarships that had muted even his harshest critics. After much consternation, gossip, threats, and an endless round of meetings, the politicians and the citizens of New York had agreed that the school would attract out-of-state dollars that would be beneficial to the city of New York as well as the state.
Syeesha sat in the second row of the classroom and savored the lightheaded, euphoric feeling that engulfed her every evening she was in Professor Asher’s class.
Why couldn’t he be a normal college professor?
she’d often wondered. Most of the faculty at SLS sported frizzy gray hair—if they had any hair at all. They wore faded and wrinkled Dockers and lectured in a dry staccato that reminded Syeesha of sitting in a hot church as a child while the preacher urged the congregants to pray for Sister So and So’s speedy recovery, his voice proving more effective at inducing sleep than a mother humming a sweet lullaby in a rocking chair.